all the memories i won't keep
by rapunzel in arendelle
Summary: "You write Fred's name through the blur, then clear it. Too depressing." -— Bill and Molly struggle to make it the first week without Fred. / for Razo Imprie.


** All the Memories I Won't Keep**

"nobody ever said it was easy; no one ever said it'd be this hard..."

* * *

**i**.

_Day One (without Fred)_.

Your knuckles hit the door quietly. The sound the echoes off is hollow, like him, but he barely notices. You imagine your mother shaking herself sick with tears, harbouring over Fred's clothes and books and her memories on the other side. She's been doing it for days. You try again. The sound that echoes off is hollow, like Molly, but her son barely notices.

"Come, Mum. Dad made lunch for you—just you two. He can't eat it all by himself." You lower his head, looks away. You're half-sure you'd told Fred the same thing when the twins were pissed at each other. The eldest isn't positive where the other half went, though maybe it ought not to matter because half a twin is all there's left anyway. This is infuriating. You can't shout that the predicament is unfair; that there shouldn't even be one when there's supposed to be two. It'd worsen things.

Because you can hear your mother asking you, _begging_ you, to continue, you say, "it's fine. Percy, Ginny, Charlie, Ron, George and... I think it's a good idea. You've been in there all day. _Please_." Their matriarch is stubborn. Her boy gives up.

"I'll fix the room. Just _come out_, Mum," you promise. You don't remember the last time you plead using such desperation, and couldn't care less. You just want her back.

(Why is Harry Potter The-Boy-Who-Lived, yet Fred A-Warrior-Who-Died? You should be grateful for the lad, at least for Ron, if not yourself. Nevertheless, you're a Weasley. Weasleys are always a bit selfish).

* * *

**ii**.

_Day Two (without Fred)_.

Charlie stares at you. You poke your tongue out. He won't return the gesture. Both of you are sitting across the chessboard, sucking on chocolate frog pops, like young boys. You roll your eyes—an attempt to make him laugh—and steal his pawn. Charlie stares at you. You poke your tongue out. He won't return the gesture. Both of you are sitting across the chessboard, sucking on chocolate frog pops, like young boys.

While you scan the living room, in case Mum came. She's absent. Percy raises his nose from his novel. Dad closes one [FredandGeorge] picture album for another. George lifts his head from Dad's right shoulder. Ginny strides in purposeful, only to curl on left of her father. "Ron's asleep."

"We realise Ron's a sandman, slow sloth," Percy jokes.

"Being home never gave you a right to be a jackass."

Arthur shifts uncomfortably on the couch. You and Charlie pause on his turn again to look at them by the kitchen table. It's not that you've never seen your siblings argue; _oh, you certainly have countless times_. What shocks is the conviction. Neither of you have seen a Weasley bicker and intend it.

"Prat," he mumbles, almost whispers. Clearer he adds, "I came back, Ginny. I didn't die, and leave my family to fucking rot. I'm not Fred! I didn't leave and get killed by Avada Kedarva, getting a damn stone wall on my amused grin, okay?!"

You wonder if you heard him properly, except you just nearly misunderstood everything he'd said at all over the noise of your shattering heart.

Ginny steps toward Percy and yells _bullshit_ at him and calls him a bloody idiot and how in Merlin he could mean that. She screams until her breath falls, morphing into sobs. You scoop her into his arms, rub her hair, croon and soothe, like Molly. Eyeing over the room, you cannot help admitting you need her to be here. Not even Percy Weasley is perfect enough anymore.

(Behind his bedroom door, Percy wishes he were his fallen brother. Everyone wishes they were Fred).

* * *

**iii**.

_Day Three (without Fred)_.

"Mum? It's Bill. If you're listening, things fell apart yesterday: Percy and Ginny had a row. Stuff was busy so I'm sorry I hadn't seen you. Please exit the bedroom. I don't want to lose you, too, Mum. Freddie's— but you aren't supposed to live how you are, it isn't reasonable for us; all of us. Mum? It's Bill. If you're listening, things fell apart yesterday."

("He's alright now, I suppose. He was smiling, remember?")

* * *

**iv**.

_Day Four (without Fred)_.

You sleep most of the day. It's raining. Rain plasters fog on your window.

As you wake up, your back is stiff—such a _different_ bed from ones in Egypt or France, other places you've been—like an elderly man and the sky is dark. You write Fred's name in the through the blur then clear it. Too depressing. As you wake up, your back is stiff—such a _different_ bed from ones in Egypt or France, other places you've been—like an elderly man and the sky is dark.

The first thing you do is check The Bedroom for your mother. You're surprised when she's gone, though a grin bigger than a Hippogriff probably covers your face right now. You blink away the colours the light makes upon turning it on to walk in further. Everything looks exactly the _bloody_ same; Mum left everything! You need to ruin it. You can't. You can't. But you try.

To start, you pick up clothing rumpled on the bottom of the closet. You put it down, wanting to fold it all. You rise to your feet, feeling a bit like Molly. Somehow, hazily, you climb into his bed. His scent is _alive_ in his sheets and you mentally convince yourself you've never smelled anything better. You stay inhaling it until you aren't capable of your own breath. Fred smells perfect.

You can do this.

No, you cannot.

Yes, you can; just breathe.

No, you cannot; you need him.

You'll be okay.

No_, you absolutely will not._

You are crying yourself sick with tears, harbouring over Fred's clothes and books and your memories.

(A thunderstorm crackles inside and doesn't seem to be appeasing soon. It doesn't.)

* * *

**v.**

_Day Five (without Fred)_.

All repeats. Even the downpour.

(You're in his bed since you're too selfish to leave).

* * *

**vi.**

_Day Six (without Fred).  
_

"... hurt him..."

"...careful."

"...going to be alright?

"Of course."

You're kept by something strong, lying on your back, and the darkness behind your eyelids hurts. You don't know what's happening, who's around, or how the two voices came. An involuntary shudder jumbles your insides, but you're still. You hate it; you want out of in between reality and make-believe. This is not a dream because you've not had any since before, before Battle of Hogwarts. Thrashing around doesn't help, it's as if you're frozen like a dead corpse. _Like Fred like Fred like Fred_.

Unable to shout at the voices to shut up and save you, you resister an antagonising scream. _Don't want to feel dead cold don't want to die._ Wetness feels its path down your face. And suddenly—you're unsure how—you realise the shriek as your own. You are terrified, bawling, _helpless_.

Anti-septic aromas fill your nostrils stronger than they have been today, but now the walls loaded with posters are twirling and you are suffocating.

"I love him."

"...know that..."

"hope..."

(Sickness always had made you fat coward. Have you been ill lately?)

* * *

**vii.**  
_Day Seven (without Fred)._

There are bandages your cheeks as they reproduce in the bathroom mirror. You exit, cursing the door locked. Weasleys detest their reflection. You return to the silent lunch; Molly weeps.

"You promised, Bill." Ron translates. "You were supposed to keep it."

Immediately, tears punch your pupils. "I know."

"She'll be okay, she understands."

"No s—she sho—shouldn't have to. be—cause I pr—omised." Tears drop without care. Mum walks over and holds you tight. She's caught on to unexpected breakdowns from the six of you. You cry hard, bent over your plate. After some time, she pulls you away.

You sit on the couch together, then. She says Ronald's right too many times to count and you decline the same number. She shushes when gets too much to bear, telling you she loves you over and over. Neither of you speak of Fred, the subject too heavy. Your face is nasty; it's stained by everything. Your voice cracks, even in the whisper you use to ask, "you and Dad fixed my face?"

"Yes." She whispered it back.

You smile. "Sorry about my promise."

"It's really okay," she admits, "I mean it."

* * *

_For Rosie, because I promised. You're amazing. I love you!_

_- deanna_


End file.
